The Dolphin and the Great White Shark
by kingsmeadroad
Summary: TV Prompt- When Hotch faces the greatest obstacle of his life, can he outwit the most prolific serial killer he has ever worked again? Post Season Four Final!


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related. Characters are merely borrowed and will be put back later. ;)**

**Title: The Dolphin and the Great White Shark**

**Prompt: Too Tough to Die**

"_You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be."_

_Chuck Palahniuk_

He turned and faced the man in the black mask, a resigned and somewhat angry look on his face. After everything he had just been through- that entire malicious depravation of the small town and the discovery that sometimes, there is simply no victory- even when you are entirely correct in your method and appraisal.

And now this.

"You should have made a deal," rasped George Foyet. Hotch glared at him, unrelenting, trying to think of a way out of this.

But he couldn't.

In a film, something very dramatic might have happened. Foyet might have shot at a bad angle, or the gun might have jammed, or someone else would barge through the door and save the day. But this was very distinctly not a movie. There was just no way out. Hotch had let his guard down and put his gun on the table. The glass in his steady hand was a tribute to how entirely loathsome he felt. It had been too easy to let his guard down for that one minute.

And he needed a plan. Soon.

So when the bang came, and then bullet lodged itself right into his chest, he fell like a ton of bricks. He felt the scotch cut loose from the glass and land on his previously white shirt, mingling with the hissing, searing pain of a bullet at work. He hit the floor with a crash, but didn't recognise the fact that his head hit the edge of the coffee table. He ignored the blood gushing and held his breath.

It seemed so trivial even then. He was lying in front of a serial killer; holding his breath. It felt futile, meagre and entirely useless, when he considered every utensil he might otherwise have had at his disposal.

But he had done what he always did, in truth. He trusted his head; he trusted his skills. George Foyet had been a hard guy to profile. But once that profile was made, Hotch was more than able to adapt himself to fit it. He was playing dead.

He was a Dolphin, playing dead in front of a Great White Shark. The analogy seemed stupid, even when he thought of it later, but it fitted perfectly. He was smarter than Foyet- and he wasn't that much weaker either. He was lying on the floor of his apartment, holding his breath to play dead, in front of a man who desperately needed to control him- and now could not, because death was the ultimate controller.

It seemed to take an age, and Hotch was beginning to feel lightheaded. Foyet was simply watching him, and Hotch was sure that at any second, his life would snuff out, or he would twitch, or moan, or groan, or bleed to death. And Foyet would have won. He could feel the blood spilling from his chest, and drowsiness was coming on fast. So he made a choice. Live or die. Hang on, or let go. Do or don't. Choose.

He hung on. As hard and as fast and as strong as he could, Hotchner held on.

The spitting fury that was George Foyet left just over twenty seconds later, malevolently muttering under his breath. Hotch refused to move for another few seconds, and then he breathed. Slowly. Surely. He pulled his phone from his pocket and pushed a speed dial key. He found that he didn't really need to think about it, he just dialled a dependable number.

And within ten minutes, she was with him. She ran into the apartment through the open door and got straight to work, helping as best she could. She gripped his arms and laid him down at a better angle than he had been. She stroked his hair away from his forehead, and she dialled for 911. She held his hand, made him squeeze hers, and kept him talking.

There was nothing else she could do. Emily was strong and sensible. She kept him alive in those vital minutes waiting for a response unit to arrive. She made sure that he stayed awake and talking to her- even when his words were slurred and his vision blurring, he could manage to focus on her face and what she was saying. An inebriating tiredness was falling over him, but she just wouldn't let him go. She was persistent- brilliantly so. And she carefully wiped the blood from his head, pressing her hand against his skin to stop further blood loss.

And all the while, he made a conscious choice to stay awake. Even when it was hard, seemingly impossible, he stayed with her, talking to her, responding adequately enough to keep him living.

Live or die. Do or don't.

No deals.


End file.
